Guest Post: Tales from Cuyahoga 2 - Barbara's Arms

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Don't miss Reed's previous guest posts.

There are two types of mission stories – inspirational and funny. I like to save the inspirational ones for church talks.
- Reed Soper

Lorain, Ohio was a steel town. I say was, because in the fall of 1985, the steel plant was operating at less than 10%. For missionaries, this meant that people were home during the day – prime time for tracting. I quickly learned that it was fruitless to tract during the "hour of power" (when the Price is Right was on). We could knock on a door, hear Bob Barker's voice, and see the tv on through the window but no one would answer. We could cover a tremendous amount of ground during that hour, and if we were careful, could keep track of who would win the showcase showdown.

Because it was a steel town, there was a large draw bridge that spanned the mouth of the Black River as it met with Lake Erie. Our apartment building, called Barbara's Arms (1), was located immediately adjacent to the bridge. On my first morning in Lorain, I learned that even though the steel plant was slowing production to a near halt, there was a regular ship that would approach the drawbridge each morning. At 6 a.m. (2), the ship would blast its horn, alerting the drawbridge operator of their proximity. The drawbridge operator would blast his horn back, letting the ship's captain know that the bridge would soon be opening (drawing?). The horn blasts were sufficiently loud enough to knock me out of my bed the first few mornings I lived there. It was a great way to start the day.

After a few days, we met some of our neighbors in the apartment complex. One was an older lady named Marcela Smooziak. Missionaries had lived there for years and Marcela was familiar with them. Marcela was a life-long catholic and never got comfortable calling us Elder this or Elder that. She preferred to call us "Father." It was always a generic "Father" with no other names attached.

Nearly every day when we'd return to our apartment for lunch, we'd hear Marcela coming up the stairs and calling out "Father." She would invite herself into our apartment and tell us various elements of her life story. We learned that she had her son on "half an ovary." (3) She would also instruct us to purchase jello so she could add fruit cocktail to it and present it to us. She was a sweet lady but often took up a lot of our day. We learned that if we suggested having a religious discussion, she would typically scurry off for a few hours.

One of my favorite Marcela moments involved our Zone Leaders. They had driven us home from church one Sunday and Marcela intercepted us all and insisted we come into her apartment and smell what she was cooking for dinner (4). She led my companion and one of the ZLs to another room, leaving me in the living room with the other ZL. He asked me why she called us "father " With my best straight face, I responded that she was a shut in and catholic so we performed mass for her each week. The ZL was not amused.

(1) This naming convention led to high comedy such as telling our Zone Leaders that we planned to return and spend the night in Barbara’s arms.
(2) This was a disappointment because our mission rules called for us to get up by 6:30 a.m. I will never get those additional 30 minutes per day back.
(3) This was a favorite story of hers so we learned about it at least 20 times.
(4) This was another fun thing; she'd invite us in to smell what she was cooking but not to eat what she was cooking. I don't think we were ever disappointed.

Guest Post: Cuyahoga Tales 5 - Dedication, Toledo Style

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Don't miss Reed's previous guest posts.

There are two types of mission stories – inspirational and funny. I like to save the inspirational ones for church talks.
- Reed Soper

One of the monthly tasks that Elder W-R and I had was to offer a monthly inspirational message at Zone kick-off meeting, held on the first preparation day of each month. In February 1987, our inspirational message well was running dry. Our zone was filled with Elders, not a sister in the whole bunch, and they were a bit hardened and cynical. Cold Toledo, Ohio winters can do that to a person. We knew that if we were going to inspire this ragtag team of misfits, we would need to pull out all the stops. What follows is the true story of what we (well, almost exclusively Elder W-R) did to get those cynical Elders on their feet clapping and cheering.

After a long cold, winter of sleeping on the floor in Perrysburg, Ohio, it finally hit us. We were sick. Both Elder W-R and I had colds. Sick enough that we were given the direction to take a day off to recuperate. There are few things more boring than staying home sick when on a mission. Your apartment has no ways with which to entertain you. No tv, no radio, no nothing. The only "approved" mission music were hymns and stuff like "I'll Build You a Rainbow." Hardly ways to get you through a day without losing your mind.

Don't get me wrong, in my past, I spent many a day vegging out and doing next to nothing. After being on a mission for (at this time) almost 22 months, my body was used to a certain amount of activity. It needed the walking, the door knocking, the door slamming. It needed the icy cold winter winds blowing off of Lake Erie, so cold that it would freeze your nose hairs on the warmest of the cold days and cause you to walk backwards on the coldest of the cold days for fear that your eyelids might freeze shut. Just like it needed the 98 degree summers with 90+ % humidity. Heat and humidity when, combined with bike riding, that would leave clothes bone dry in the front and wringing wet in the back. So, we sat on our makeshift beds on the floor of that cold apartment in Perrysburg with our bodies equal parts sick and raring to go.

Humans are classified as mammals. One of the criteria is hair all over the body. I'm sure you are aware that there is a range within the human species of the "hair all over the body" component. I was on the light side of hair of the body hair spectrum. Elder W-R was somewhere on the other side of that same spectrum. This information is crucial to what happened next.

Guest Post: Tales from Cuyahoga 4 - What's My Whitebread

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Don't miss Reed's previous guest posts.

There are two types of mission stories – inspirational and funny. I like to save the inspirational ones for church talks.
- Reed Soper

Do you know what happens when products at the "day old" bakery get to be two days old? They get donated. In Toledo, Ohio, in the winter of 1986, a ward member worked at the bakery and got the products donated to the missionaries. This is a story of gluttony, greed and stale donuts.

The Toledo Zone was comprised of eight areas and sixteen companionships, and Elder W-R and I were called to be Zone Leaders. We had known each other for more than a year and looked forward to our service together. One of our tasks each Saturday was to pick up the sorted bags of baked goods to distribute to the missionaries the following day. The member had painstakingly gone through the effort of ensuring that each of the eight bags contained essentially the same thing. The same amount of white bread, wheat bread, and baked treats. A sort of day old law of consecration, if you will.

Guest Post: Tales from Cuyahoga 3 - The Mistake by the Lake

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Don't miss Reed's previous guest posts.

There are two types of mission stories – inspirational and funny. I like to save the inspirational ones for church talks.
- Reed Soper

It was early spring of 1985. I had graduated high school the year before and had recently quit my job to "prepare" (1) for my missionary service. My papers had been submitted and all that was left was to wait. My father had served a mission some 30 years before. He said that after he submitted his papers, he went to a travel agency to look at the various posters from far away places. While there, he saw a poster displaying a large field of dutch tulips and he felt impressed that he would be called to serve to the Netherlands. Lo and behold, that was where he was called. I can remember one night thinking of this story as I was in bed and drifting off to sleep. I had a strong impression that my call would come in the mail the next day and I imagined where I might be sent. My older brother would be coming home in a few weeks from Venezuela. (2)  Two young men from my stake had recently been called to London. I thought of all the interesting and far-away places that might be a part of my near future. As I thought, the word "Ireland" came to my mind clearly and repeatedly. My 19-year old self was satisfied with this answer and fell asleep.

The next day, as I had suspected, my call came in the mail. I had heard stories of many young men waiting for their families to return home in the evening and gather around before opening the envelope. I committed myself to wait to open the envelope for a good five minutes (3)  and then decided I needed to confirm my call to Ireland. I opened the envelope, filled with pictures of what my haircut should look like, lists of clothes I should bring, lists of things I should not bring, and the cover letter. My hands shook a bit from nervousness as I read the letter. The first time through I couldn't figure out where I was going or when I was to report. I sat down and steadied the letter against the dining room table. Ohio Cleveland Mission. What? Wait? I checked the envelope to make sure it was actually addressed to me since I was supposed to go to Ireland. This must be some mistake. I read further. I would learn the discussions in Spanish. Wait a minute here. I'm no geography expert, but Ohio is pretty far from the Mexican border or any other place where Spanish is spoken by a large segment of the population. I was confused and left the materials on the table to be digested at a later time.

One of my older brother's friends had been called to Cleveland and had recently returned. When he had received his call, I remember teasing him about going to the jewel of the rust belt. I was aware that the Cuyahoga River had caught fire during our lifetimes and Lake Erie was known to live up to its name. I called him up and, without disclosing my call, asked him how frequently he ran into Spanish speaking people during his stint. After some thought, he replied that he could not recall contacting one person who spoke Spanish. Apparently my mother could sense my lack of excitement over the call and suggested that this might be payment for me being a smart aleck through my teen years. (4)

So there it was, Cleveland and Spanish speaking. In time I came to accept the call and even look forward to going. I'm not sure this is doctrinal, but this was one time that karma played a big role in a mission call.

(1) My preparation included sleeping late, watching a lot of tv and going to a record store on a regular basis.
(2) I noticed at the time of my brother's mission call, everyone over the age of 50 pronounced Venezuela as "Venzueala."
(3) I've always had exceptional willpower.
(4) I could always tell when I was clearly and obviously in the wrong cause my mom would not be in my corner.

Guest Post: The Week of Living Nervously (Part 3 of Urology Series)

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Don't miss Reed's previous guest posts.

The doctor's office can be a perilous place. I'm never quite sure when I go because I feel ill just talking about the symptoms or probing them out. Annual physicals are even more capricious in nature, at least from my experience. Sometimes physicals are at the request of a new health insurance company, sometimes because of volunteering for Boy Scout service, and sometimes just because you reach a milestone age. Each of these occasions bears its own "form" – a piece of paper outlining the battery of tests to be performed. My real question on these occasions is what sort of indignity will I be asked to submit to.

I fancy myself as a shy, somewhat reserved person. I tend to not speak or write about things I deem personal until sufficient time has transpired and then, only if, I can mine the experience for some comedic value. (1) Let's just say that I was at my doctor's office getting my 60,000 mile servicing several years ago. The doctor ran through his list of places to poke on my body. Then it came to the part of the exam that I was secretly hoping would not occur. I thought the doctor and I could remain in the "friend zone." Nope, drop your drawers Soper. He needed to check something. I cleared my throat and put my hands above my head, closed my eyes and began to think of England. I'll try to be more gentle in my description than the doctor was in his investigation. He was checking for issues in the "area where Lance Armstrong had cancer." (2)

I glanced down and saw a furrowed brow on the doctor's face. He told me that I had something going on in the “AWLAHC." He assured me that this was by no means a diagnosis that I had cancer in the "AWLAHC," but that it needed to be followed up on. I was to be scheduled for an ultrasound.

If I ran the world, when a doctor told someone they might possibly have cancer, especially in the “AWLAHC," you wouldn't have to wait very long for the ultrasound. Sure there are more pressing medical emergencies -- I'm not saying I should have been transported immediately by ambulance or helicopter to the closest medical facility with an ultrasound machine and immediately whisked into the room, like a Disneyland patron with a park hopper pass. No, I am not proposing that at all. It would be nice if you didn't have to wait nearly a week, walking around wondering if you might have cancer in the "AWLAHC."

In this particular case, I had to wait five days. Not an eternity by any stretch, but they were still five days. I considered my options. Maybe I just blow off the ultrasound and live my life and hope for the best. Or, I could assume the worst and go bungee jumping, parachuting, and eating nothing but McDonald's food for a month because, hey, I might have cancer in the “AWLAHC." Life is short. Let's get some excitement going. At the very least, I should have created some sort of bucket list, you know, just in case.

Guest Post: Destroying the Death Star (Part 2 of Urology Series)

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Check out Reed's previous guest posts, including the MMM 2011 Post of the Year on his vasectomy.

I have come to the realization that there are two types of people in the world -- those who pass kidney stones and those who don't. For many years, I was blissfully in the second category. Then one morning at about 4 a.m., I moved from the second category to the first category. I made the move initially on my bathroom floor and completed the transformation at the local emergency room. This experience prompted me to do some reading up on the topic and I learned that kidney stones lie in wait and will pass at moments without warning. (1)

I related these stones to the most obvious comparison – Star Wars. The stones were like little Death Stars moving about the universe (my kidney) waiting to attack and heap pain upon unsuspecting Alderaans or moons of the planet Yavin. It was determined that I should get an x-ray to determine how many little Death Stars might by lying in wait.

I sat patiently in the urologist's office awaiting the interpretation of my latest x-rays. His assistant entered, young, bearded and devoid of humor. He delivered the news to me gently. "You have an extremely large kidney stone that could cause you a problem at any time." He let me know that it could get stuck, perhaps for days, when passing. We went over the options:

1. Roll the dice and see what happens; or,
2. Opt for a lithotripsy.

Lithotripsy is a procedure where kidney stones (the litho) are exploded (tripsy?) into small pieces (hopefully) using ultrasonic waves. Kind of like the rebels destroying the Death Star in Episode 4. (2) I could explain the procedure in greater detail, but suffice it to say that it will run you your full deductible and then some. Based on the experience I had with the first two kidney stones I passed, I was scared into the procedure. We set the date and I hoped that the forces of gravity and inertia would cause the massive stone to wait.

Guest Post: When is a Weed a Weed?

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Don't miss Reed's previous guest posts.

Our family bought our first home in a modest neighborhood. By modest, I mean, old, small and run-down. Lots of poor people, both because it was their first home and they stretched to buy it or the owners were senior citizens on fixed incomes without the means to maintain the property. There were homes, interspersed throughout the neighborhood that had well-attended yards, but they were the exception, not the rule. That being said, we bought what we thought we could afford. As I fumble to describe the yard of this first house, um, let's say it was apparent that the previous owners and the yard were not on speaking terms.

We bought the home in April, which I learned was the beginning of weed season. I spent a lot of time pulling weeds, watering what was left of the lawn in an attempt to conjure it back to life, cleaning debris, and generally trying to make it look decent. It took regular effort, like effort nearly every day, to eventually bring the yard to a level that I was okay with. One of my neighbors with a well-maintained yard approached me after we'd lived there for a year or so and complimented me on my efforts. My heart swelled. I was one of them! By them, I mean, those whose yards collectively raised the profile of the neighborhood rather than lowered it. I wanted to stay in that club.

As with nearly all things, our ownership of this home came to an end. It was time to move to a larger home, nearer to my work and maybe in a nicer neighborhood. We had the good fortune of finding all three. One of the things that impressed me about this house is that, with the exception of one (1), all of the yards on this street were carefully manicured. This was where I wanted to be, or so I thought.

Not only were the homes larger, the yards were as well. On paper, a larger yard made a bunch of sense – more room for the kids to play, plus bigger is always better, right? Wrong. We had made the offer on the home in April, not only the beginning of the weed season, but the wettest part of the year. At that time, the lawn was green and lush. We took occupancy the beginning of July, which in the desert that is Utah, is the dry season. I guess the sellers thought that since we bought it, they had no reason to irrigate the yard. So we took over and I had another project.

The one thing, though, is the yard was twice as big. And, as the kids got older, they seemed to need to be shuttled to more places. And my work seemed to demand more of my attention. And I learned that I like to do other things besides yard work. Let's just say, my standards have slipped.

My current neighbors would easily win an award for the best people ever. I mean that totally sincerely. They are friendly, patient, willing to help, interesting, talented, and with the exception of the Green's house, great landscape maintainers. I don't think that they think ill of me because I have more dandelions in my lawn than they do. But I have a theory about the concept of "passive-aggressive" speech. I will describe it in the footnotes so you don't have to read it if you don't want to. (2) I don't think their statements like "Wow, the dandelions really seemed to like your yard this year" were intended to say anything other than the surface meaning. That doesn't mean I haven't had the following conversation in my head:

Them: Wow, the dandelions really seemed to like your yard this year.

Me: Oh, no, I wanted them there. I planted them.

Guest Post: On Becoming Sterile

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Have a guest post for Modern Mormon Men? Both modern mormon men and women can submit guest posts via email. In addition to your post, please include a post title and a paragraph of introduction (on yourself).

Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Check out Reed's first guest post here.

image via Neatoshop
The time for discussion was long since over. Seven kids. We had bagged our limit. (1)  And with our combined hyper-fertility, something had to be done. We had discussed our options and it came down to this -- the least invasive, least expensive and least risky procedure also had the quickest recovery time. The only downside to it was that I would have to be the one subjected to it – a vasectomy. (2)

I had spoken to a few friends who had downplayed the procedure. “You’ll be fine in a day,” one said. Another told me that he actually drove home from the doctor’s office where the procedure was performed, which is a big no-no, but he did it anyway. I read a piece in Slate about how about a third of those scheduled don’t show up. Maybe the fear was all in their head and this was going to be the equivalent to getting my ears pierced or something.

Kathy drove us to the urologist’s office. We made jokes to lighten the mood, but I can honestly say I was not looking forward to the next hour or so. I had been to this office a number of times the previous summer after passing some kidney stones. The office staff included the Urologist, a man who looked like he could have retired years ago but just wasn’t quite ready to give all this up. The receptionist was a large, angry woman who breathed exclusively through her mouth. As she became agitated, you could hear the hiss of her breath as she lashed out at the poor soul who didn’t properly fill out all the forms. There was also a potentially transgendered nurse who literally bounced around the office. At each visit, it seemed to me like some progress was being made towards a final gender, but oddly, I could not tell which direction it was headed.

On this day, we needed to fill out another form. Kathy needed to give her consent for the procedure. I felt a wave of indignation -- what about “My Body, My Choice”? Then we were both ushered into the urologist’s office to be interviewed -- his way, I guess, of determining why we wanted me sterile. His office was the embodiment of sterile. The lights were dim, the windows well-tinted, with a large dark desk, bookshelf, chairs and an examination table. There was at least one ceramic looking replication of male genitalia. I don’t know if that was swag from a urologist convention or perhaps a plaster casting of some of his better work.

Guest Post: Chip

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Check out Reed's previous guest posts, including 2011's post of the year on his vasectomy.

print by Brian Kershisnik

He is sitting precariously on the edge of my bed, switching between his iPad and mine. His focus today, as is most days, is numbers. He plays number games and watches numbers dance to music on YouTube. Occasionally he'll slip in some letters, but he seems preoccupied with numbers.

One of my earliest memories is standing behind the front passenger seat in our VW bus, looking out the window and counting things. Telephone poles, street signs, mailboxes, trees, whatever stuck out from the concrete sidewalk and cinderblock walls. Early on it was just a tallying of how many there were on a particular block. Then I compared the number from one block to another to check for patterns. Since often those patterns didn't exist, I would invent my own patterns, counting the items in groups of threes, hoping to end with a full set of three upon arrival at our destination. Later, I would count the letters in the street signs and assign them to groups of three or five, and occasionally seven. This all took place completely in my head and I don't think my mom (the driver) or my siblings had a hint at my peculiar hobby.

He will look at the flash cards on the ground. Sometimes he will initiate the arranging activity and place the numbers in order from 1-20. Most of the time he prefers someone else to get it started. I purposely place a few numbers out of order. He makes a hooting sound and moves the numbers to their appropriate spot. While at seven years old he does not speak with words, his actions communicate loudly that making order out of chaos is a priority to him.

I can hear my mother expressing frustration that there are no clean pieces of scratch paper in the junk drawer. The pieces of scratch paper remain but they are filled with math problems, generally multiplication and division. I have no idea why I, as a seven year old, would do this. I would get a math problem in my head (what is 265 times 52) and would need to work it out so I could know the answer.(1) I didn't commit answers to memory; maybe it was more of an exercise to remind myself that I could make order out of chaos should the need arise.

Guest Post: Remembrances of Primaries Past or Dog Day Tuesday Afternoons

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Have something to say? Anyone can submit a guest post to Modern Mormon Men. Just send us an email with your post, a post title and a paragraph of introduction (on yourself).

Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Check out Reed's 2011 MMM Post of the Year.

I am old enough that all my primary years were spent in the "pre-3-hour block" era (1)(2). Those days can be considered the "salad days" if you hate salad. What it meant was a weekly disruption in my post-school afternoon cartoon watching (3), a 30-minute drive to the church, about an hour-and-a-half of music and religious instruction, followed by a return 30-minute trip home. As a child, much like now, I was entertained by shiny objects, blinking lights, explosions and firearms. Sadly, primary lacked all of these. The trauma of it all has repressed but a few memories and I would like to share those with you today.

Primary always began with some music instruction and an opportunity to sing to children who were visiting and those who had birthdays. During most of my primary years, I had nodules on my vocal chords. This resulted in my voice being raspy and hoarse. These nodules were like calluses that had been formed from overuse. I (well really it was my mom because I was 8) was given a couple of options for dealing with this. One was surgery to remove them and the other was for me to talk quietly and sparingly. The surgery option was frowned upon for a few reasons. The biggest reason was that it would cost money. The next biggest reason is that the surgery tended to only temporarily resolve the problem. So we went with the quiet boy option. A third option was to ignore it and have an awesome raspy, hoarse sounding voice forever (4). I, like most young boys, used this diagnosis purely to my advantage. I maintained my big mouth throughout most of my usual activities (and do so to this day) but when it came to singing time, I had a golden ticket. I didn't have to wish the birthday children a very happy day from me to them or welcome visitors with song. I also didn't have to learn or practice any of the primary songs that we might be singing in a future sacrament meeting. Do not fear, intrepid reader, this excuse has not left me wondering what color the little purple pansies were dressed with (yellow-gold), or how often the little stream gives (all the day). The excuse did, however, provide me with opportunities to let my mind wander.

Guest Post: On Early Retirement

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Have something to say? Anyone can submit a guest post to Modern Mormon Men. Just send us an email with your post, a post title and a paragraph of introduction (on yourself).

Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Check out Reed's first guest post or his more recent post on becoming sterile, which won our Post of the Year in 2011.

Recently I got some sad news: the check-out lady at the grocery store where we shop told me that Eric, a bag-boy at the store, was retiring.

I imagine that not many people "retire" from bag boy, but Eric is not like many people. Eric is in his mid-30's and has Down syndrome. When we first moved to the area and began grocery shopping at this store, I avoided the registers where Eric was bagging. I am not proud of this; in fact, I am quite embarrassed by it. I had my superficial reasons for avoiding his bagging, like concern about squished bread and broken eggs or other mishandled or damaged groceries, but the real reason why I avoided those lines was because of Eric’s different-ness -- something I was uncomfortable with. Beyond the typical visual cues, Eric's speech was often difficult to understand. On several occasions he would speak to me and I’d have a hard time understanding him, or worry that if I did respond, he might hold me captive for a lengthy conversation. These interactions reminded me that I have always been uncomfortable being around people with disabilities. And being around Eric reminded me of my significant character flaw.

I remained this way for some time until my son, Thomas, was born. Thomas, like Eric, has Down syndrome. Thomas' extra chromosome was a big surprise for us -- we found out shortly after his birth. It has taken me substantial time and effort for me to be comfortable with the differences and limitations that tiny extra chromosome brings to Thomas and our family. One of the more difficult things for me is seeing the limitations and separations the world places (and I placed) on those who are different, like Thomas or Eric. I was at once feeling protective of my child and also realized that I was one of the people he needed protection from. As his father, I knew I needed to make some major adjustments in how I viewed Thomas and others with special needs. I also knew that no matter how much I was able discard my biases, others would continue with whatever biases they have held onto.

Guest Post: On Waiting

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I recently went on a trip with two of my young sons. We went by plane and actually had to change planes on a layover. We rented a car once we got there so we could go to the places we wanted to go and do the things we wanted to do. One of my sons noted at one point during the trip that there was a lot of "waiting" involved. And indeed he was right. On the trip out, we waited for the shuttle bus at the parking lot, at the security gate in the airport, waited to board the first plane, waited to leave the first plane, waited to board the second and de-plane it as well. We waited for the rental car and to check into our hotel. He was right; there was a lot of waiting.

I had a conversation with a co-worker who said he read something that stated that we spend 20% of our lives waiting. I don't know if that is accurate or not. I think it depends on how we define it. There are nights when I "wait" for sleep, sometimes for hours. I don't know if that category of "waiting" was included or not. But certainly we do wait for many things.

Why do we wait? I think we wait for things to happen. We wait for information to be shared. We wait for people to come and be with us. We wait to be entertained. We wait to be able to exchange money for goods and services. We wait for good things to happen and we wait to find out potentially bad news.

When we are in line with others, we are all waiting for the same thing, right? The same movie, the same opportunity to buy yogurt or a shovel, to register our car, to deposit a check or make a withdrawal. What we do while we wait, however, that is completely up to us. And I think it is worth considering that what we choose to do while we wait, sometimes, just sometimes, might be more important than what or who we are waiting for.

Guest Post: Mission = Prison?

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California.  He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.

I live in a neighborhood that is possibly the most mormony neighborhood in the heart of mormondom. Every home adjacent to my home is filled with mormons. The homes adjacent to them are also filled with mormons. You have to go out two or three more levels before you hit your first gentile. One of the characteristics of a neighborhood like this is that there are a lot of missionaries. A lot. Let me repeat, a lot. At one point, my ward had 24 missionaries out. There are fewer in my ward now but the adjoining wards are picking up the slack. This leads to a lot of missionaries coming home.

There is a custom that occurs in my neighborhood when missionaries come home. Of course, there is an obligatory sign that might say something about honor or service or something like that. The yard is almost always decorated with yellow plastic plates decorated with happy faces and stuck in the front lawn. Balloons have been seen attached to fences, mailboxes and other front yard features. Those balloons are also generally yellow [1]. I am generally perplexed at how 50 or more happy-faced plastic plates convey the love and emotion a family may feel at the return of their son or daughter. But even more perplexing is the common sight of one or more coordinating ribbons tied around one or more trees in the family’s yard. That’s right: yellow ribbons.

Now, I realize that readers under the age of 40 might have no clue why this sight is so bewildering, so let me explain what yellow ribbons mean to those of us born before the end of the Vietnam War: bus-riding ex-cons with unresolved relationship issues. This was explained to us by the musical trio, Tony Orlando and Dawn. It starred, not coincidentally, a music artist named Tony Orlando and two women back-up singers referred to as Dawn [2]. TO&D had a hit song in 1973 called “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree.” This song, which sold 3 million record in three weeks [3], led to them starring in a weekly variety show in the heyday of variety shows [4]. For those not familiar with it, the song is about a guy getting out of prison. He wrote to his wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/whatever hoping they could get back together, but he emphasizes that he doesn’t want a reply by mail -- for some undisclosed reason, he couldn’t bear that. Apparently, their post-prison arrangement never came up while he was in the pokey. I'm going to go out on a limb a bit here and suggest that the friend never contacted him at all during his sentence. So he suggests that he/she/it tie a ribbon on a big tree (an old oak tree, specifically) “if you still want me.” By contrast, no ribbon means he’ll “stay on the bus; forget about us.”

Guest Post: The Theology of Trash

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Some of you may know that I received my degree in Archaeology (1). Archaeology is fun because you get to mess around in the dirt and dig holes very slowly. To dig your holes, sometimes you use shovels, sometimes trowels and every so often, you use paintbrushes. I have heard some describe it as a "lazy person's way to dig a hole" and how could I argue with that assessment? We dig, we look, we think about what we see, we take pictures of what is in the hole, maybe draw a picture of it, we take notes of what we think it is that we see and we have lengthy discussions with others trying to determine what the prehistoric function of whatever it is we see in the dirt. I have personally witnessed multiple-hour long discussions about what a particular thing is in a hole, only to have someone come by and say "that is a rodent burrow" (2). We of the archaeological world fancy ourselves as big thinkers, not necessarily big dirt movers.

An archaeologist's job is to explain what these things are in the holes. When reports are written, explanations like "I dunno" or "Beats me" are unacceptable. What takes their place is the explanation that the unexplainable thing has some "religious significance." That label gets chosen because most aspects of human life, whether prehistoric or current, have some fairly rational explanation. They built pit houses to live and sleep in. They grew corn to eat (3). They made pottery to store their junk in. Many religious activities of the past and present do not have the same clear explanation. Why did they make this different sort of building that is different from a pithouse? Why did they make these ceramic figurines? Why did they carve this pendant out of slate and why did they have a collection of red and green ochre (4)? I dunno, it must have some religious significance. When I read "religious significance" in an archaeological report, I know what that means -- they "dunno."

Vote or Die 5: The Best of MMM 2011

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Modern Mormon Men was launched mid-Apri of 2011. We are still young, but we’ve already had some great times. We are really proud of our first year. What have you liked so far? We looked at page views and “likes”, among other things, to come up with a list of some of our favorite posts. Please vote below for your favorite MMM post. Feel free to write one in if you don't see your favorite. How did we do our rookie year? Anything you would like to see more of? Less of? Or did we nail it all first try?


Fatherhood Top Fives by Scott Heffernan.
I'm His Dad by Josh.
I Had A Bad Feeling About Serving A Mission by Sam Nelson (Guest).
I Know This Is Going To Make You Mad by Josh.
In Character: Bishopric Edition by Topher Clark.
Joplin, Missouri by Saint Mark.
On Becoming Sterile by Reed Soper (Guest).
On Queers and Marriage: Messieurs, I Respectfully Disagree by Luke Warmer.
Mormon Alliteration by Seattle Jon.
Mormon Radar: How to Spot a Mormon by Scott Heffernan.
The Six TV Shows That Make Me a Better Man by brettmerritt.
This Is Not A Post About Swinging by Aimee.
Welcome Casserole by Bishop Higgins.

Guest Post: Tales from Cuyahoga 1 - Alternative Medicine

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There are two types of mission stories – inspirational and funny. I like to save the inspirational ones for church talks.
- Reed Soper (previous guest posts)

(The following story is true. The names have been changed to protect all involved)

April 1, 1986

Four mormon missionaries are headed to the Parmatown Mall near Cleveland, Ohio.

Elder A and I had been companions for several weeks and were working together well. Prior to this companion-ship, I had served with Elder B. Somewhat coincidently, Elders A and B had served together prior to my companionship with Elder B (1).  Elder B was now training a new missionary, Elder X. X was a challenge, more so than your typical new missionary. Beyond resisting the training B was assigned to give, X was prone to obnoxious behavior. Because of this, B was frustrated and this led to our preparation day trip to the Parmatown mall. The original intent was to provide B with some pleasant distraction and run a bit of interference between he and X.

On the drive to the mall, X demonstrated some of his less endearing traits to A and me. Since this was our first meeting, A and I made several inquiries to X about his background and interests. His answers were sarcastic (and not in a good way). This behavior gave us insight into B's frustrations (2). He also made several references to his belief that B had a fundamental misunderstanding of how to go about missionary work. While I firmly believe that no one is above reproach, hearing a new missionary diss his trainer seemed inappropriate. There was a sense throughout the mission-issued Chevrolet Cavalier (3) that something ought to be done. A scheme was concocted that drew upon all the skills and maturity that our 20-year old minds could muster.

As we neared the mall, B asked how X was feeling. X had recently been diagnosed with an ear infection and had been prescribed Tylenol 3 (4) for the pain. X replied that it was about the same and he had doubts that his medication was benefiting him. B, one of the most clever people I know, stated that he had read a study that taking pain pills internally diluted (5) their pain-relieving effects and there were better ways to administer these medicines. A, not one step behind B in cleverness, mentioned that he had read the same article and that the best way to relieve pain was to fasten the pill directly to the skin. A gave me a knowing look and this April Fool's day (6) joke was off and running. X was skeptical but A,  B and I all chimed in that advances were always being made in modern medicine and what did he have to lose.

We got to the mall and went to the member-owned Orange Julius store and asked to borrow their scotch tape. A took about a 2 inch piece of tape and carefully fastened the Tylenol 3 to it (7). A stated that it was important to have the imprinted letters of the word “Tylenol” on the tablet touch the skin, as this was how the medicine traveled from the pill through the skin and to the affected area (8). A maintained that the pill must be attached to X's left temple for maximum effectiveness. For the balance of our trip to the mall, X had a pill taped to his head. For the rest of the day, X had a pill taped to his head. For the next three days, X had a pill taped to his head. This included multiple visits to member's homes (9) as well as several hours of tracting (10).

The most amazing part of it all was that X believed that it worked (11).

(1) If this genealogy of companionships is confusing, please contact me directly and I will draw a diagram.
(2) Forgive me for not going into great detail about his responses, dear reader. It has been a long time and some of the specifics are a bit hazy.
(3) If you had a car, it was either a Chevy Cavalier or a Ford Tempo with absolutely no optional equipment.
(4) Tylenol 3 "Return of the Pain Reliever."
(5) The pill would break down and travel through the bloodstream all over the body. There is at least a scrap of logic to this, right?
(6) Full disclosure – we realized it was April 1st midway through this practical joke but we took full calendrical advantage.
(7) As B and I watched A, with a surgeon's precision, stick the pill to the tape, it was almost more than we could take. We bit a hasty retreat and cracked up for a minute before regaining composure and rejoining the group.
(8) A coming up with the need for the imprinted letters on the pill to touch the skin to allow for transfer of the medication from the pill to the patient was on the fly and sheer genius. He also told X that in 24 hours, the pill would be merely an empty shell, devoid of any pain relieving ingredients and should be carefully replaced.
(9) The members were briefed beforehand. Everyone wants in on a good April Fool's Day joke.
(10) Word is that a discussion was also taught with taped pill in place. I cannot confirm this.
(11) We did fully disclose the nature of the joke to X after three days. He was a pretty good sport about it. No animals, humans or testimonies were harmed in the perpetration of this joke.

Guest Post: On Waiting and/or Winning and Probably Whining

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So here is my story. About four months ago I decide that I should try and see a specialist (1) about this thing. So I go and look up the list of doctors that deal with this thing that are covered by my insurance. And there are four of them. So I go down the list and call and, in turn, the first three receptionists tell me they aren’t taking new patients. Not a good sign but I am intrepid. I call the last on the list and they can see me, in four months. So I make the appointment. I tell the person getting my information what I want to be seen for and they say, sure, come on over in four months.

Last night is the day before the long-awaited appointment. And like I do, when I’m trying to go to sleep, I’m totally obsessing about this appointment. It is like Christmas for a six-year old except without presents. I’ve been waiting for a long time and I’m anxious about what they are going to want to test for and what they might discover and all that and so I toss and turn and get maybe three hours of sleep.

So finally the long awaited day comes and I go to the doctor’s office. The waiting room is tiny and dimly lit. The go through the deal with me signing more papers and copying my insurance card and having me wait in the first room and then moving me into the second waiting room where the doctor will eventually see me. The room where I am asked to wait for the doctor (2)  has about the same square footage of other rooms of this type but it is crammed with stuff. There is the examination bed, two regular chairs and then this crazy 1970s style ergonomic backless chair with a makeshift table attached to it. I literally have to walk sideways to get to the seat. This room is maybe three stacks of newspapers away from being a hoarders episode. And here I wait.

The specialist finally arrives. He looks to be about 300 years old, about 4 foot 11 and maybe 85 pounds. As required of old men, his pants are hiked up to his armpits, barely leaving the pocket in his shirt that holds no fewer than 12 pens visible. He has his white doctor’s coat on and has his auxiliary pens in that pocket as well. I have seen my fair share of doctor’s over my lifetime. Typically, when they enter the room, they greet you and ask what I am here to see them about. No big surprise but this was not the case with Dr. McOldy. He walked in, said hello, I said hello back and he then sat down in his goofy ergonomic backless chair, opened my file, put a nice crease down the middle of it and stared at it in silence for a good two minutes. After this moment of mediation, he cleared his throat and said that he isn’t really enthusiastic about trying to work with patients with the thing I have. Which is super funny because the insurance list showed him as being someone to see about this thing. He blah, blah blahed on for a little bit and then said that he bet that I was wondering why they had me come down in the first place, given his disposition on this matter. I felt that was a valid question. He was unable to provide an answer. After some more of his blah, blah, blahing, I stood up and suggested that “we were done here” and left.